


Recordatio

by dancink



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Historical Inaccuracies, M/M, only the last line is McShep, overwrought angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-01
Updated: 2007-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancink/pseuds/dancink
Summary: The sky is blue today, high and limitless above him, and John imagines his father flying a B-52 like the one in the only picture John has; his father perched on the wing, tall and dark.





	Recordatio

**Author's Note:**

> Pls be noting that a) this was written sometime in ‘07, when fandom collectively erroneously understood John's father to be/have been in the Airforce, and b) back in the day, angst was my default setting (now it fluctuates between 'crack' and 'even crackier'). Also, I did approximately zero research on this, I don't even know if they were using the B-52 during Vietnam (I'm suspecting they didn't - I used the B-52 because it's my favorite plane, ever.) Lyric credit to Tori Amos.

[I never was there  
Was there when it counts  
I get my way, you’re so like me  
You seemed ashamed  
Ashamed that I was  
A good friend of American soldiers]  
  
*  
  
John is not quite six and living with his mother.  
  
She is on the couch, one arm up behind her head, the other quashing her cigarette in the ashtray ever present on the floor beside her. It is mid morning, a Saturday; Elmer Fudd is catchin' rwabbits on the television, the volume turned down so far John has to strain to hear, his ear pressed against the speaker. She doesn't like loud noises in the mornings.  
  
His father is away. John last saw him six months ago, dressed in blue, pleats iron sharp; a Captain in the Air Force, off saving Asia from the Communists. On her better days she tells John about him, about how they met, about how strong, and brave, and heroic he is.  
  
On her better days she does a lot of things.  
  
Today is not one of those days, and John is hungry so he leaves the television and crosses the room, quiet footsteps made by small feet. In the kitchen he makes cheerios, climbing up on a stool to reach a bowl, a spoon. Pouring the milk carefully, proud not to have spilled a drop.  
  
He takes his bowl back to the television. Bugs is now wearing a hat with horns and John ponders this whilst chewing. Behind him his mother lights another cigarette, inhales.  
  
The doorbell rings and she gets up to answer it. There is a man dressed in blue, pleats iron sharp, and for a second it is John's father. Then he speaks and the illusion is gone, the voice a slow drawl, nothing like his father's sharp, accurate tones. She invites him in, and John knows his place. Turns off the television and takes his bowl and closes the front door behind him, not listening. Never listening.  
  
He walks around the side, past the driveway, the unkempt hibiscus bush and into the small backyard, settling down on the swing set his father ordered for his fourth birthday, the set assembled in his absence by a team of men in grease-stained overalls. The sky is blue today, high and limitless above him, and John imagines his father flying a B-52 like the one in the only picture John has; his father perched on the wing, tall and dark. He finishes off his cereal, leaving the bowl and spoon neatly on the swing seat before taking off up the driveway, arms out like wings, soaring.  
  
Soon the front door swings open and his mother is calling him inside, the man straightening his collar as he saunters down the porch steps, his hair at all angles. John runs into the house, pauses at the window. A collection of bottles reign the sill and he counts them. Subtracts the empty ones. Watches the man who dresses like, but is not his father walk down the driveway, climb in to his car, pull out from the curb without a backward glance.  
  
*  
  
John has just turned thirteen and is temporarily living with his Aunt Beth.  
  
It is only temporary, his Aunt Beth repeats as they drive away from the cemetery. Just until his Father returns from overseas. Just until his Father has had time to set up a house and organize a school and buy all the necessary equipment one needs to raise a thirteen year old boy. Beside him in the back seat his cousin Joey nods, viciously; John knows that there will be no sharing with the older boy.  
  
John stares at his hands, his nails dirty with the soil from his Mother's grave. It's only temporary, as soon as he gets to the airport his Uncle will take him into the men's room to wash the dirt away. But for now it is all he has left; of his Mother, of his life.  
  
The cemetery is far behind them. John doesn't look back.  
  
*  
  
John is seventeen and five twelves and is graduating from High School in a matter of minutes.  
  
The auditorium is full with parents, siblings, friends, and well wishers. John has a seat reserved in the front row, not valedictorian but close, top in math and physics and a star on the football field. He sits tall in his seat for once, proud. He worked hard for his reward, a place at the United States Air Force Academy, in Colorado. A chance to become a Pilot. A chance to be like his Father.  
  
A chance to be liked by his Father.  
  
The Principal calls his name, and John walks up the stairs to receive his certificate, his award for outstanding sportsmanship, his prize for calculus. Behind him his friends holler, cheering him on.  
  
His Father never arrived.  
  
*  
  
John is twenty-six, and his Father is dead.  
  
A heart attack, the Air Force doctor said, quick and unforeseen. John is given two weeks to settle up his Father's estate before he has to return to Edwards. In all it took a day to settle the financial side of things, his Father had a will and a good lawyer and lived in base housing, anyway, so the Air Force will take care of the well-kept property. He left half to John, half to John's Aunt. John isn't surprised.  
  
All that is left is a box of old photos and papers the lawyers said his Father wanted him to have. John can't see why, really; a bunch of letters from his Grandmother, sent to his Father whilst he was in 'Nam, weathered, black and white baby pictures of his Father and his Aunt, souvenir postcards from the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore. Junk, really.  
  
At the bottom of the box there's a candid from before John was born, a church in California. His Mother is smiling, blond, resplendent in her wedding dress, his Father has his arm around her shoulders, his dark black hair neat, his Dress Blues immaculate, his posture regulation straight. Next to her another man, familiar, his stance relaxed, his hair at all angles, a lazy smile on his face. 'John, Lucy, and their best man Mitch' reads the caption on the back.  
  
John puts the photo back in the box carefully, thoughtfully. Replaces everything exactly how it was and then closes the lid. Stuffs it into the metal Motel wastepaper basket and then sets it alight.  
  
His Father is dead.  
  
John doesn't care anymore.  
  
*  
  
John is thirty-eight, and living on Atlantis, and in Rodney McKay's arms. That's all that matters really.


End file.
